


heads turning

by Anonymous



Category: Vinland Saga (Manga)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Brother/Brother Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, OR IS IT, Obliviation, PTSD, Sad Ending, Sibling Incest, brief rape fantasy, canon age regression, just like canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Some days are worse than others.
Relationships: Torgrim/Atli (Vinland Saga)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [sommer sturm und drang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23570638). This chapter's pretty cheery, except for the lingering psychological horror of bond brainworms, but it's headed for roughly the same ending as canon, just 10 or so years earlier for the characters.
> 
> @vincestsaga on twitter for more brocontent 👍

"Maybe I ought to start on suppressant potions," Atli says. His chest is still flat, four years after graduating Durmstrang. So is his belly. He lives in his brother's flat and he stays inside a lot.

"Don't be stupid," says Torgrim. "It'll be here any day now, and you don't want to be on any potions when it does."

 _It_ is the baby.

Torgrim's a good Alpha. He provides for them both, and instead of getting angry he just keeps insisting they're sure to conceive next time. He even cleans and cooks sometimes when he gets home from work. That's what he did today. Bitching at Atli the whole time, but in a good-natured way. Then he climbed into bed, where Atli's been feeling low and horny and useless ever since he woke up alone this morning.

"You might have some hormones coursing around in there already," Torgrim goes on, refusing to stop being optimistic at him. The word "pregnancy" is no longer part of polite conversation under their roof. For all they're both thinking it at each other constantly. "Sometimes depression..."

"I doubt it," Atli says a little shortly.

It's Torgrim's job. It pays well, but he has to leave at odd hours, sometimes before sun-up. And some days, waking up without his Alpha there hits Atli hard. One of the stupidest, most humiliating parts of being an Omega. He couldn't even get up to change the sheets after using the marital aid to relieve himself a little. His brother had to magic them clean before crawling in with him.

Torgrim likes being needed like this, of course. And Atli likes needing him—because he's needed back—but he really doubts his brother understands how embarrassing this part of it is. Being completely useless all day because the right person wasn't there when he woke up. It seems to turn Torgrim on, actually, which pisses Atli off, and he hasn't started letting his scent waft out to show he's ready for sex. The fact that his brother's smell is cheering him up, and making him desperate to get fucked, is just pissing him off more.

Torgrim, lying next to him on his back, not a care in the world except getting his brother pregnant, isn't about to be shut down that easily. "You know what I think, is your body's saving up for a litter. On your very first go. That's why you smell all salty. The ocean's all about fertility, you know."

"I _don't_ know. What the hell are you talking about?" Atli's glare is wasted; Torgrim's still looking up at the ceiling.

His brow knits. "You know, it's funny, you used to smell different. I never went around sniffing for you, but I knew it. I can't make it come up in my mind now." He turns to Atli, an awful blank confusion in his eyes. "All those years. You'd think I'd remember it."

Atli takes his arm and pulls him in firmly. "Don't go worrying about that. No one asked you what I used to smell like." He wishes Torgrim would do them both the same favor he does, of thinking these things only in the very middle of the coldest nights. Not often. Not out loud.

Torgrim lets his hands be guided to the right places, and squeezes dutifully. "No," he says, breathing in the scent that Atli can't smell himself. "You're right, it's better now. Can you believe all that time we wasted?"

They used to just play, and talk, and tease each other. They still do, but there are long stretches of time where talking gets difficult. Pleasant stretches of time that leave his whole body heavy and stupid with satisfaction. But one little part of his brain always feels distant afterwards from his brother. Awkward, like they've spent time apart. Even when they've talked and grinned at each other in the firelight, something feels forced about his own voice, thick from exertion.

His brother's still in control of himself when they're trying. (It's been _trying_ ever since that first afternoon.) Atli knows that because even the most modern-minded Alphas are rough with their Omegas sometimes. Especially when there's trouble conceiving and their most intense, primal need is going unmet. Torgrim doesn't do anything his little brother's not in the mood for. He wrecks a pillow or two sometimes after they're done, but Atli can always feel him straining to hold back when he's been asked.

He does try to be in the mood for rough stuff. It's supposed to help get you pregnant. But it makes Atli feel a bit special knowing his Alpha tries so hard for him. Maybe that's the secret nobody else knows. You just have to have loved your Omega from the second they were born.

"It was meant to be like this," he says, surprising himself. "All that happened so it _could_ change." It's a relief to think. Then and now aren't so different. It doesn't matter what they used to be to each other. _Now_ is better for having eaten up the scraps of their childhood.

Torgrim makes a sound of agreement, or maybe a scoff, and Atli hurries on to explain himself so he doesn't have to figure out which.

"Someone looking out for us, you know. The old gods or something like that. Making sure we had enough time before it happened. So we'd be close enough. Not get scared."

Torgrim thinks about that—for a while, his hands roaming absently as he does. "Must happen sometimes," he observes, just as Atli's about to ask if he's sleep-groping, or what. Atli doesn't need to ask what he means. "Think how many first heats must happen in your own home."

"Yeah." Atli's thought about that already. And heard the jokes, and rubbed one out to the dirty pictures of 25-year-olds pretending to be 13. It doesn't happen so much these days, but there are still traditionalists who'd rather have a natural first heat than put their child on suppressants. He likes to think the lower numbers make the two of them even more special. "But not a lot of heats holding off until your big brother's ready to hold down an honest job."

"Is that what you read about while I'm hard at work? Finance porn?"

"'S'not like I get to hold down my own honest job." Atli rolls back, letting go of Torgrim to stare up at the ceiling. After all that reassuring him.

His job's not quite _dis_ honest. In Atli's seventh year it was something with deliveries, that brought him near Durmstrang a fair amount. Nobody questioned the two of them being eager to see each other. And they were old enough to drink, and rent rooms in a nearby town until midnight. Atli went out to see him whether he was in heat or not, although the excitement was sometimes enough to bring one on. Often enough he'd have a few packages to carry back to Durmstrang in the early morning. Torgrim's not the first OB to get a job with this particular outfit, and the students there are an important stop on the delivery route.

There's no clearly defined mission statement, but roughly speaking, it connects wizarding artifacts with Muggle customers, and vice versa. Nothing too flashy ends up with the Muggles, just items with subtle enchantments that improve life in little ways. No definite statements made about how it's going to improve your life, and no liability if it fails. No liability for what the wizarding customers do with their Muggle items, either. Some wizards just can't be bothered to get their money changed for Muggle shops, others have a nasty prank in mind and want the kind of realistic prop you can't conjure up without learning about machinery.

Atli's been hoping to work for them too ever since he graduated. But his heats won't calm down until he conceives.

"It's not you I don't trust," Torgrim tells him. Not for the first time. "It's just not the kind of job that attracts bonded Alphas. I don't want you near anyone I work with until you're _safer_."

"If I went on suppressants..."

"And if someone's rut sets you off anyway?" Torgrim nuzzles at the side of his head, scenting him nervously as a defense against his own imagination. "You'd take it so hard if something did happen. Some Omegas wouldn't mind, but you're the nice old-fashioned type. And you'd fight. They'd have to really hurt you to get anywhere."

It's a pretty detailed fantasy. Atli doesn't really mind. They look at the same Omega-claiming porn. He just wishes his brother wouldn't treat his fantasies like prophecies of the future.

Then again, they wouldn't make the porn if it didn't happen.

It shows up in the papers sometimes, a set of arrests that don't name the offense but list off "(Alpha) (Alpha) (Alpha)" after each of the names involved, like a very persistent echo. Magical and non-magical law in Denmark have had standardized punishments in place since the days of the _things_ , at least, but it works the same as with every other crime. Non-magical law's trying out rehabilitation recently, with mixed results for Omega-related crime. Magical law leaves the offenders with a brand on their face, for a length of time depending on the degree of violence.

The Alpha who succeeds isn't considered an offender, of course. Some people joke that their reward is also a punishment. They're responsible for their new bondmate, by every law written and unwritten. So of the Omegas who have an unexpected first heat, Atli really is the luckiest of the lucky.

"Sounds like you're telling me to give in and let it happen." He lifts his chin to let his scent travel, and Torgrim presses his face in eagerly. A satisfied growl shakes Atli's ribcage. "If it's really so dangerous."

"Can't have you getting hurt." Torgrim's voice is thick, distracted, as he slides his knee over to Atli's other side to straddle him. There's no trace, in the bulges now pressed close together, of the shape one is going to take before they're finished.

It's funny, when Atli thinks about it, that he's never seen the knot for himself. He could probably draw a pretty good likeness based on feel. Not that anyone's likely to ask what his brother's knot looks like. Life might've been easier if he'd been able to tell from a glance that there was nothing like that hidden inside his own prick. They would've been separated for school, though. Thinking about that is unbearable past a second or two, and he tilts his chin higher to pull Torgrim in closer.

"And what'll you be doing, then? Standing back to watch?"

"Maybe those gods of yours ought to do something." His hands are always gentle when they start out, when he's spreading Atli's legs apart.

"I think they might like to watch more than you do." Face-to-face like this is always harder. It means being stuck in the same position for a few hours, and it gets uncomfortable if you don't pick the right pose to start with. But Atli shifts himself into his best guess. He was useless all day and his brother's been nothing but good to him. "Why else would they set up all this shit for us to go through?"

"Thought they were looking out for us."

"Omegas, I mean. Not _us_ , us."

"Don't think of yourself like that," Torgrim urges, his hands tightening pleasantly on Atli's thighs. "You don't have to worry about that stuff. You can take care of yourself."

Atli squeezes his tits thoughtfully. At least one of them's filling out nicely in his twenties. "Yeah." He knows Torgrim also means _You've got me looking out for you._

It does make him feel safe, how heavy his brother is on top of him. Their spells reinforce each other perfectly on the door, the windows, the fireplace, keeping prying eyes out. Nobody knows what Atli is or what his brother does to him in the privacy of their home. Some of their neighbors might not even know he exists.

He's safe, and his brother loves him even more than the baby they should have by now. They're going to work together once the baby's here, and old enough, and they can tell everyone it's Atli's with a dead Omega bondmate. But really he was born knowing his real bondmate. He's as lucky as anyone can be, being an Omega.

"And anyhow, you're not like—"

"Oh, shut up," Atli says suddenly. "Just hurry up and fuck me. You know I'll let you."

Torgrim remains unbothered. It's both a relief and a disappointment. "Get your pussy out, love, you're going all moody."

" _Don't_ tell me it means I'm knocked up, I can't stand it today."

"No," Torgrim says, cupping his face. "That's just you. Come on, you brat, are you in or out?"

It's in, of course.

He plays with Atli's prick while they're locked together, until Atli's shivering and limp underneath him. Tightening around the knot when he comes is even more intense than getting fucked. It's enough to leave him knocked out some days, so they don't do it all the time.

"Sorry," he says afterwards, weak and abashed. "I'm just sick of the waiting."

"Your body's getting ahead of itself." His brother kisses his ear, still rubbing his scent onto Atli's thoroughly conquered head and neck. "And your brain's getting even further ahead. You don't know how to be patient, that's your problem."

He's always going to be the little brother. "You don't know what it's like." There's no bite left in his words. It's not Torgrim he's fed up with.

"I know what _you're_ like." Torgrim's weight lifts then, leaving him feeling cold and lonely. "Come on, you can manage a clean-up spell. I'll get some pillows on the chairs. You get that sweet arse out of bed."

The pillows Torgrim conjures up are always an unpleasant grey color and about half as thick as they should be. But Atli can't conjure much better, in the state he's in. "Fuck off. I scarcely have the energy to think."

That's not really true, though. Not anymore. His brother's scent makes it better. He's been fed a good long dinner these past few hours, and his body's starting to feel it.

"Fine," Atli says. "Fine. Just give me my wand. Don't leave me here."

"'Give me my wand,'" Torgrim mocks. "Try keeping a hand on that one instead of the wand in your pants. Where'd you leave it, anyways?"

"I don't fucking know." Atli looks around as he rises, groping for the blankets as if they'll be a fraction as warm as his brother. "Just use Accio."

An urgent thumping from the drawer with the marital aid reveals the whereabouts of his wand. Which Torgrim's not going to forget in a hurry. Nor the fact that Atli forgot to get rid off the stickiness.

"Shut it," he says, doing the charm so quickly it vanishes a few knobs off the marital aid. "You try going through rut with nothing but a knot-sleeve. See how put together you are."

"Now why would I do that when I've got you?" His brother pulls him forward, closing the gap between. "Come on, let's get you stuffed full of something that isn't cock."

"Shut it," Atli repeats, starting to grin despite himself. "I'll have you know I'm feeling better already."


	2. Chapter 2

The wall of their flat's living room is home to a true modern-day marvel of magical engineering. To Torgrim, it looks like a shimmering, exotic souvenir of a weekend by the sea, something he might as well have fished up himself for the price he paid. To Atli, it looks like the bloated and stiffened hind end of a dead fish. Its previous owner called it a mermaid tail, and Torgrim does too—and refuses to let on whether it's stubbornness, or genuine belief.

The only resemblance the tail bears to genuine mermaid is that it's impossible to accidentally burn, or accidentally char, or even accidentally singe. It's in no danger from the candle they keep mounted next to it, anyway. A special kind of flame burns in that one.

When the candle lights with a yellow flame, Atli doesn't pay it any mind. It blends with the lamplight, and it's not the first time the flame's burned yellow. Every once in a while Torgrim runs into some trouble at work. The others with him are all in the same boat. They get out of it, and the candle snuffs itself out without a trace of smoke. He rarely even looks up at it these days.

A blue cast across Warner Wilkison's face in Who's Knotting Who Global makes him look up. First to the lamp, puzzled, then to the window out onto the street, and only then to the candle. Seconds later, a green pallor fills the room, and then a red blush. If Atli were looking at Warner, he'd seem to be going through a very quick run of emotions for a casting call.

But the magazine's forgotten now. There's nothing to do until the organization contacts him, so Atli sits. Waits for a burnt wick to show with his stomach in knots. When it doesn't, he relaxes just a bit, and waits with tense hands and shoulders for the word to come. Warner Wilkisson's face sunburns badly underneath the red light. Atli looks instead at the potion stain on the carpet, the one neither of them can get out with cleaning products or magic. The one Torgrim keeps teasing him is from his cooking.

It's dull work, waiting, so he thinks, just to make the time pass. Tries to remember what it was he said this morning before Torgrim Apparated our. Goes through the healing spells he's going to need when the light turns back to yellow and then goes out and he has to punch his brother in the face. Wonders how many other candles are burning red right now, and if any of them have word yet. Wishes he was just fucking _there_. No matter what anyone tries with him. That can't possibly be worth more than a green light.

Their windows are enchanted to stay dark from the outside. Like curtains in a Muggle flat, but they can see outside. The flat's on the second floor, but there's a lot to be careful about when your brother thinks it's his business to chivy you off to bed with little kisses and squeezes when you're busy with something at bedtime. No matter where you are in the apartment. The spells have been on the windows for years now, and they repel not only human attention but birds, insects and the like. So the raven that flies through the closed window is more surprising for the direction of its entrance, than for its arrival.

More precisely, it's a swarm of flies that enters. The raven itself—or it might be a crow—opens its mouth to let the swarm escape, then melts back into place as glass in the window, filling up the open space. The flies lift up to eye level and spell out, buzzing all the while, _Accident._

That tells Atli nothing he didn't know. But he wasn't exactly expecting someone to Floo in with a full report. The flies usher him to the door, wrapping around the doorknob and forcing him to reach in amongst them to grab it. Their vibrations feel horribly real and alive, but they'll disappear when they get back to their owner.

The fire on the stove is real, and two steps down the hallway Atli remembers to douse it with a flick of his wand. The one in the grate is magical, and a moment's hesitation he leaves that, in case they need to Floo back. The swarm of flies stretches itself thin leading him down the stairs outside, as if he needs it spelled out for him. Maybe some people try to run.

It's an old-fashioned car, the kind mostly wizards use these days. The brand on the driver's face is spelled to shine even in the dark. An ugly green, in the shape of the old ᚠ rune. It corresponds to the Greek Alpha for reasons Atli only vaguely understands. But it's what's set down in the law, so that's what the brands look like.

He's bonded and not in heat, so his smell shouldn't cause any trouble, but he rolls the window down a crack anyway. Once he's about to speak, and then realizes he doesn't know if Torgrim's told them he lives with his bondmate, or his brother. If things work out all right—and they might still, he tells himself—he can't ruin it all anyway by saying the wrong thing. Instead he whispers a quiet homeview charm that shows him, in a little globe concentrated at the tip of his wand, a small view of the flat. It doesn't have to be detailed. The red light is still shining bright.

The car takes a sharp turn, much too fast into a dead end lane, and with a crack they're through the row of bins at the dead end.

The building's hard to think about even as a wizard. It seems old, anyway, and small. The branded man has to gesture to Atli impatiently before following him up to the door seems like the right thing to do. Five knocks, in a sequence equally hard to think about, and the door opens. It seems to Atli like the cloaking ought to lift for him a little. He's got the same blood as one of their employees.

The man takes him inside, then through a yellow door, and next a series of winding hallways too big to fit inside the building. He walks quickly, but not so quickly Atli doesn't wish he'd hurry up. The floors are plain linoleum, strangely mismatched with the magical hallways. Finally they come to a wooden door that looks like an ending.

"Get him the fuck out of here," the man says, pulling something out of his pocket. "We've got Muggles in and out of the whole place."

The Muggles probably don't know what that brand on his face means. Not likely to be too many Omegas among them, though. One of the lines in the rune bisects the eye, and a lot of Alphas used to lose vision on one side in the olden days, when it was just an untrained village wizard doing the spell. "Odin's brothers" still come up a lot in movies and things, to show a character's got a dark past, but one they can be forgiven.

"You've had a healer see him?" Atli can't help asking. They moved so slowly and he's already formed a mental grudge against the man for anything that needs a hospital stay because it had time to settle in the body.

The man raises a hand in the air, not interested enough to be defensive. "Nothing to fix."

Atli catches the sack by sheer reflex when he tosses it with his other hand. Looking at it dumbly, he sees nothing big enough to be medicine or small enough to be important.

"Last paycheck." The branded man rubs thumb and forefinger together. "Partial month."

"Oh," Atli says, very carefully, slipping the little bag into his own pocket with fingers luckily too numb to grip his wand. "Thanks."

"Apparition works in that room. Nowhere else. Don't try getting out the way you came; you won't."

_It was the red light_ , Atli tells himself, _not the wick_ , and there's somebody in there to take home; despite how little he wants his back exposed to the branded man, he's already forcing the heavy wooden door open.

His brave, handsome brother is sprawled in a chair, gazing at nothing. He doesn't look up when the door opens. When Atli reaches his side, crossing the tiny room in a single stride, he barely blinks. The door bangs closed; Atli wonders absently if the man slammed it, and if it's meant to open from the inside. Much more of his attention is on his brother's half-blink, the only response he shows to the loud noise from the door.

"Torgrim," he says gently, knowing in his bones that this isn't simple deafness. "Brother. How bad is it?"

Torgrim looks through him. Head turned slightly, and that awful blank look. "Who are you, mister?"

"I'm Atli." Torgrim's smell has had time to fill the room and become stifling. Like six feet of dirt layered on top of you without a coffin. "Your brother. I'm here to help you."

"Said they were bringing someone I know." He gives a faint shrug, the first sign of animation he's shown. "And it can't be you, ‘cos I don't know you."

"But I know you." Atli reaches for him, hoping it's even possible. Aching to get his arms around him and kiss him all over, but he has an awful sinking feeling it would scare him more than help. "I'm going to take care of you. Okay?"

Torgrim considers him, permitting the hand to settle on his shoulder as if such things are bound to happen sometimes. "I guess. You don't stink like they do."

"Hold on tight," Atli tells him. "I'm taking you home. It'll feel funny, but don't let go."

At home, Torgrim rubs his ears and complains. He seems completely unused to the after-effects of Apparition. For a few moments he looks horribly near tears. Atli tries to keep an eye on him as he roots around for the ledger Torgrim keeps in a thick, messy hand. It's two months behind, just as he thought. He can already tell he'll be looking for work, and they'll be living on savings till he finds it.

One minute after he Apparates in, the candle in the living room snaps itself cleanly in half and melts into the carpet. A water stain, not wax. It's not much of a surprise. The job doesn't exactly offer a pension plan.

* * *

If things have to come out—if the secret has to be spilled, for his brother to get better, then that's what has to happen. But first Atli visits the hospital himself. Just to ask. The next three healers tell him the same thing. Obliviated memories are hard to recover. Self-Obliviation this bad is rare. None of them have read or heard of a recovery.

He takes suppressants now, all right. They both do. Atli brews them himself. If the old gods really are out there, they're not kind enough to step in and stop a man from getting horny just because he doesn't know what horny is. All the recipes are advertised as tasting just like your smell-match. But you're not supposed to enjoy suppressing your fertility, so the promises are just ad copy. They can't get rid of your scent completely, but there's a muted quality to it now, a metallic aftertaste to the earth that Atli's still getting used to.

Torgrim has to be kept busy while the cauldron's on or he tries stealing tastes. He does like cuddling still. He pulls his knees up to his chest and rolls around happily in the blankets even after Atli gets up. So Atli can still give him that, at least. He can't describe what it is he's smelling beyond, "Real good," and that's for the best, really, because Atli's afraid to find out if he can still Apparate. There's enough in the bank saved to get a TV. He'll probably do that once he's sure of having work.

Beta women have the best chance of conceiving, after Omegas. Atli doesn't have much hope of being able to satisfy an Omega woman. And Betas are the most open to marriages. With each other, usually. But sometimes with an Alpha or an Omega who's lost their bondmate. They can even reproduce, with the right combination of parts. That'll be the quickest way to prove to everyone that he's able to work, and that his incapacitated brother is perfectly safe from everyone in the household. And that he's been on suppressants since he presented, of course. Just too embarrassed to leave the flat much.

Quills are another object of great interest now. Especially when they're moving.

"Don't grab that," Atli says absently, lifting his hand out of the way for the tenth time today, and watching a blob of ink sink away into the blot-absorbing parchment. They must expect a lot of emotional breakdown when you're filling out these forms.

"What's it for? I want one." Torgrim makes another grab, but lets his hand be gently redirected without protest.

"It's for writing." Atli waits and when his brother also waits, instead of moving on to shuffling the stack of job applications beside him, he adds, "I'm applying for a wife, I guess."

"What for?"

Atli can't tell if Torgrim recognizes the word or not. Sometimes he understands a surprising amount, and other things seem to have been wiped out, like a stray ink blot on the forms for the newspaper personals column. "It'd be someone else around the house to keep you company. A woman." _Someone who won't have a smell to distract you, or ask why you still like mine better._

"I want sausage to eat," Torgrim says. " _Just_ sausage. Don't put the other stuff in."

"You'll get sick if you don't eat your vegetables." Atli smooths a lock of hair out of Torgrim's face and wishes he hadn't felt how cold his own hand is. "I'll cut them up so small you won't even taste them, okay?"

"I'll bet you can't." Torgrim musses his own hair, defiant, so even more falls over his forehead. "If I taste any I'll spit it all out."

"Give me a second to finish this and we'll see." Turning back to the parchment and keeping a watchful half-eye on his brother, Atli fills in ☑️ _Yes_ and ☑️ _No_ under _Children?_ and draws an arrow into the margin: 〰️➡️ _Long story, write for details_.


End file.
